Terms
by cyrilandshirley
Summary: Ste and Brendan before the break-up.  Ste POV.


**Terms**

_It's always on your terms, innit?_

It's never gonna change, this. It'll never be about what I want. We'll just tread round and round this circle, him taking me when he wants me, pushing me away when he doesn't.

Last night, when he said he'd take care of everything, and he leant in very close, I knew I wanted it, and I thought he did too, and I leant in for a kiss, and he sent me home. He was playing with me. Again. Bastard. Time after time after time.

So why do I keep ending up here?

I tried to change the pattern, break out of it, I did. I tried to pack in my job after he hit me the second time, but – I dunno how - he made me feel that this was just what happened, between guys. And I'd never been with a guy before, I didn't know. In my head, I knew it was all wrong, but my heart and my body were yelling something totally different. And then after he threatened Amy, and Macca, I tried to tell him to stay away. I avoided his calls, didn't answer the door. Macca told me Brendan loved me. It scared me, though a week or so before I would have been jumping up and down to hear that. I didn't think that could be love, after what I'd seen and heard and felt. It wasn't like any idea of love I'd ever known.

So after all the mess with the fire, the threatening and the hurting and the suspicion, I broke it off. I knew I didn't trust him, because I didn't understand what was going on in his head. He wouldn't let me in. I decided to try to make it work with Rae. It was him who told me to get with her in the first place, but I don't work like that. I can't just use people, like he can. I'd always liked her, and when we had sex, she made me feel good about myself, after. She didn't just close down and chuck me out like he had. I wanted to be with someone who made me feel good, not like some piece of rubbish, someone you could pick up and drop when you wanted to. I wanted him, yeah. I did. I never stopped wanting him. But I wanted something real. I wanted to be happy. I told him I didn't want anyone getting hurt – and I didn't. Not me, not Amy, not Macca, not Rae. Not him. Cos I was sure he did feel … something. I'd seen signs. The way he held me, touching his forehead against mine, or wrapping me in his arms when I was broken about the kids. Something in his voice, when he told me he didn't want me to go. Something in his mouth, when he said he was glad I'd moved on from Amy, and kissed me. Something in his body, when he came inside me. I was sure I hadn't imagined it.

He turned around and told me he didn't care, that I was wasting his time. It was like a slap. So I guess I had my answer then.

I was weak, though. When we got back from this holiday, me and Rae, I saw him around, and he made it obvious he still wanted me. And for the first time ever, I felt like I had the power. And I liked that, the way that made me feel, knowing he was looking at me, jealous, and wanting me. It sent an electric current up and down my spine. I had never felt so fucking powerful. So what did I do? Let my guard down. I let him get friendly. We flirted. I started getting that feeling again, that maybe he really liked me, that it wasn't only lust. When I left him in the bar, and I caught his eye, I knew he would come for me. And he did. I sent Rae off with the kids, and I let him fuck me on our bed. And I just completely gave into to that buzz, the power in his body, taking what he wanted from me, and I told myself the story had changed, that it'd be different this time. That it would be more equal. That he'd have to admit he wanted me now. It wasn't. The next day, I told him I could get away, spend some time with him - and he binned me off. And there I was again, feeling stupid, rejected, like dirt. Like I was nothing to him, though his body hadn't said that the day before. His body had arched, and clutched, and pressed, and it was kind of desperate, and rough, hardly even bothering to undress. I was more confused than ever. Maybe it was just sex, this thing between him and me. What a total idiot I'd been. Stupid. Confusing sex with … something else. I know I'm not maybe the brightest. But I didn't know even I was that stupid.

When he cut up rough with that Trevor, I tried to walk away, finally, and I meant it. I was blinded by tears, but I was starting to understand why this couldn't work, why it could only ever be sex to him, and it was because he didn't know what he was, what I was, what any of it meant. I was just a secret, I wasn't even real, I was something you keep dark, something you can't even admit to yourself, let alone to anyone else. We were never gonna be living more than a half life. Less than that. A lie. I pushed him away, this time. Shouted. And then I tried to kiss him, right out in the open with the sun shining down on our heads. I just wanted to wake him up, to make him admit that there was something there, between us. He tried to shut me up, but I shook him off. Or he let go. I'm not sure.

"That's the way this works," he said, like I was saying words he couldn't even understand.

Well it wasn't fucking working for me anymore. I told him he was on his own. I think I heard him calling after me, as I walked away. But I kept on walking. Too late mate, I thought to myself, wiping away the tears, it's too fucking late for all of this.

The next day, he told me he could change. That he wanted me to see some good in him. I heard myself laugh, hard. He was just trying to get back into my fucking underwear. I was almost shocked by how cynical I'd become. By how used I was to being manipulated, used. By how it had become totally normal. I practically expected it. It was rubbing off on me, that hardness. And there was no way I was going there again.

But I thought about it, what he'd said, about changing. And I wondered if maybe … I could call him out on it. If I could make it happen. Change the terms. If I could just have one last try, to see if we could be something to each other, after all the talking and kissing and sex and hitting and hiding and running away. I guess I was tired of being on that fairground ride. But not so tired I couldn't give it one last chance, to break out of that cycle.

I went round there, to his place. It was just before Christmas. And it was a bit like I was watching from the ceiling. We made all the usual moves. Exactly the same pattern. Round and round and round. I was cheeky, faced up to him. He was guarded, but seductive. He looked at me, close, and I didn't look away. There was a spark, that blew up into this flame that licks at us both and sets me on fire. He pushed me onto the sofa and kissed me, long and hard, and I gave into it, almost completely, my hands in his hair, just drinking in his mouth, the taste of it, letting myself feel how much I wanted him, seeing how far he'd go to get what he obviously wanted. Almost, I said. Not totally.

He broke away.

"C'mon," he said, panting, already heading for the bedroom.

But I wouldn't go. I drew a line. I finally did it. I told him what I wanted. I wanted him to go out with me. Somewhere in public, where I felt real. Where all this felt real. I told him I didn't want him to be ashamed of me anymore. He looked confused. For a moment, maybe for the first time, I don't think he knew what to do, to say.

"I don't think that," he said. And he sounded sincere. Like it had honestly never occurred to him before that I felt that way.

So we went. He actually did it. He came out with me. I took him to one of those gay bars. I just thought, well, this is the sort of place Macca brought me, and it helped me. It made things make a bit more sense. I thought … I thought he might feel like it was all a bit more normal. I think I was a bit stupid. I was impressed that he came though. I was nervous, like a first date, which I guess it was in a way. I think he was too, cos he was jumpy, like a fish out of water. But I stuck to my guns, gave him my terms. I wanted a relationship. With him. A proper one. One where we talked to each other - or more like where he talked to me, told me things, confided in me, cos I'd already told him plenty about me. One where I felt I was actually part of his life. Because I missed that, what we'd had back at the beginning, when he talked to me, and I felt like I was seeing a side of him that no one else ever saw. When I felt like we were friends. When I felt like I mattered to him. Before he fucked me, and that's all I became.

He looked like he wanted to run a million miles. I felt my hope disappearing. But,

"I'm here, aren't I?" he said.

And I really wanted to believe that it was possible. I reached out for his hand. There was a split second, where he just looked at it, then he stroked his hand across mine, and stood up. Said he was going to the gents. Disappeared, fast. Didn't come back.

As far as I was concerned, it was over. There was just nowhere to go with it. You can't come back from that really, can you? Your lover, or your boyfriend, or whatever he is, running out on you and legging it back to his family. And maybe it was good, I told myself, when Cheryl told me that he'd gone back to his family, that it had finished before I let myself get too serious about him. About all this new side of my life. Maybe I'd jumped in way too fast. That's what my head was saying anyway. Funny how my belly just had this dull ache, that went on day after day. A feeling of having lost something, that I'd not even begun to understand.

I went back to working for him, and that's all. He came back early but we hardly had any chance to talk, and I avoided it like the plague. He spent a load of time shut up with that Danny anyway, I saw them together. Don't know what all that was about, because Danny shipped off after that, sold the business to Warren and buggered off without a word – back to London I guess. There was no leaving party, I'll tell you that much. I thought he was all right, though he looked at me a bit strange sometimes.

I don't know why Brendan went into business with Warren Fox. I wish he hadn't. I hate him. I know him from ages ago, and there's nothing about him I like. He's not like Brendan. Brendan, OK, he has his problems right, he's moody, and has a right sarcastic mouth on him, and he can be handy with his fists, I know that better than anyone. But he's a laugh, when he's in the mood, and he loves the bones of Cheryl, and his kids, and he can be generous, when he feels like it. With Brendan, you don't know if you're getting the sun or the moon, one day to the next – or one second to the next, but if you get the sun, you just enjoy it, soak it up, surf the wave, because there's nothing like the craic when Brendan's on form. But Warren's not like that. He doesn't give a damn about anyone but himself. And I sometimes think there's nothing he wouldn't do to get the advantage. Not out of passion, just because it suited him. He's all business, is Warren. Stone cold, for all he jokes and laughs. It's never funny. Because if you're in the way of his business, I sometimes think you could end up taking a short walk to a shallow grave, and it wouldn't matter who you were. Brendan … Brendan is completely alive. He's the most alive person I've ever known. But there's something dead about Warren.

He started picking on me straight away. Said he needed me to do stuff for him, that he'd give me money. I'll be honest, it scared me. I didn't want his money. I never wanted anyone's money. I just wanted a job that let me pay my way and look after Amy and my kids. I don't need much for me, I hardly ever buy clothes or anything. But you don't really get the chance to say no to Warren. He asked me to meet him and gave me this packet, asked me to take it somewhere I didn't know, and deliver it. I wanted to run a mile. But I had no choice.

Brendan found out about it. I don't know how. I'd been avoiding him since Christmas, not taking his calls, trying to make sure I was only around him when Cheryl was, or Rhys or Jacqui. He was angry, didn't want me to do it. Hated me hooking up with Warren, wanted me to take the problem to him. I was still angry with him, spat back at him about him hitting me. And he lunged at me, spitting fury. I thought he was gonna go back to hurting me, and I flinched. But it's strange, he didn't. He turned over a table with one hand, sending it flying, glass splintering all over the floor, and pinned me against a wall, but all he did was put a hand on my chest, and keep it there. His face was furious, but his hand was almost gentle, and his words … confused me. He said something about having done something for me, that I didn't know about. Said I could go on telling myself he didn't give a damn about it if it made me happy. And I didn't know what to say, because it didn't make me happy to think that. I wanted him to care about me. But I think I'd decided he wasn't capable of it. He never would.

Warren walked in. He let me go. He seemed manic, blamed me for the mess, made a joke, walked out. I watched him go, so confused. Then Warren started getting heavy with me again. I don't think I'd felt that confused, or that miserable, since I'd stood up to Brendan in the skatepark. But that time, at least I'd been in control of it. Now, I just felt pushed around by both of them, hating it. But given the choice between the two, I knew which one I'd always take.

I took the packet round to Brendan, that night.

_One of your better decisions_, he said.

_I hope so_, I said.

It's just business, I told myself. Of the two of them, I'll always trust Brendan more, because … he cared about me, once. I'm sure he did. I really think he might have, anyway. There were a couple of nights we spent together when he kind of sheltered me, and I slept with my head against his shoulder, his arm around me, and I felt protected, if nothing else. Safe. It's funny really, how I felt safer than I'd felt in my whole life, for all that he'd hit me. And no one's taking that away from me. I almost changed my mind, told him I didn't need him to take care of me, because I'm not a baby. I'm a Dad. A grown-up. He forgets. But he just took the thing from me, like he always does. Said a boy couldn't do a man's job. Said he would take care of everything. His mouth was very close. His eyes, hooded. His voice kind of coaxing. And I wanted, for a second, to be taken care of. I really wanted that badly.

And then he sent me home.

I felt stupid. Humiliated, a bit, though nothing happened really. And scared. Because I knew he was going off to do this thing so he could find out about Warren, and I wasn't sure what that meant for him, or for me.

I went home and did what I was told. He warned me Warren would come round, and he did. I sat on a chair, my phone cradled in my hands. He'd told me to have my phone with me, but I wasn't sure why. As Warren did his usual act, all heavy and menacing, and I felt the sweat form on my palms, the phone vibrated silently in my hand.

_His name's Kyle_, the text read.

"What was his name," Warren asked me.

"Kyle," I said.

So maybe … Brendan was taking care of everything, after all. The phone kept humming and flickering, and the messages kept coming, until Warren had everything he thought he needed. I still thought he was going to hurt me, but somehow, I got away with it. When he was gone, my legs were shaking. I sat down and tried to breathe. But all I could think of was what was happening on the other end of that phone.

I tried to ring him loads of times that night, but his phone was switched off. I went into work, frantic, but he wasn't there. Given himself the day off, Rhys said, left him and Jacqui in charge. Rae had been trying to tell me something, earlier, but I was a bit preoccupied. So I headed round to the flat instead, after work. He was there. He looked cool, unruffled. I was just relieved I think, that he was OK, because I was starting to realise this was really dangerous stuff. I've done some dodgy stuff in my time, but I was in way deeper than I had been for a long while, and I'd never done anything like this since I became a Dad. You can't can you, when you're responsible for other people? But sometimes I guess you just do what you have to do.

He asked me to come in.

"Cheryl's out," he said.

I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure what that meant. I wasn't sure what I wanted it to mean. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd pushed me up against a wall, yelled at me, patronised me, teased me, and binned me off. But he had protected me. He leant towards me now and said he wouldn't hurt me. Called me by name, the name he always calls me. Stephen. I went in, a bit nervous, not knowing what to expect. Not knowing what I wanted.

He said he would tell me what happened. But he said nothing. He closed the door. He walked over to me. And he raised a hand, and brushed my hair slowly out of my eyes.

Unbelievable. Yesterday, when I wanted it, I was out on my ear. Today, when he wants it, here I am. I look at him with a kind of resigned feeling in my chest. I hear that laugh that isn't a laugh, soft and half despairing, in my mouth.

"It's always on your terms, innit?" I say, as his thumb traces across my cheekbone, and down the side of my face to my chin, stroking underneath my mouth, making my lips open, and I feel my sense of determination melting into something totally different. Desire. My heart sort of aches with disappointment with myself, with him. That we're settling, for this. Or I am. But my body aches for him in a whole other way.

"Is it?" he asks, stepping very close, and fixing me with his gaze. He drops his voice, very low, almost whispers. "Then walk away …"

But I don't move. I don't think I can. I'm fixed there, by this force coming from him, that makes me do this. I want to be here. I want to be with him. It's just so good. It's not like anything I've ever known. He's not like anyone I've ever known. And he takes me to places I've never been with anyone, or think I ever will. These are the terms. His.

He smiles.

And then he kisses me. But it's two-way, if I'm honest. It's hard to describe what happens when he kisses me. It's like he's taking a long drink, like he wants to taste all of me. My brain just goes into suspension, and there's just his mouth, trying to dominate mine, but I hold my own. There's only his tongue, so I rub mine against it, and his lips, pushing mine apart, so I open my mouth and push his apart further as I go. His hand controls me, at the back of my neck, but my fingers close around his neck as well. Why do we do it? I don't even know. Why does anyone kiss anyone? Cos you're looking for something in them, and you know you're gonna find it. It's a promise, a temptation, a teaser, a gift, a demand, a reward - I dunno. A negotiation. And I know where this deal is getting sealed.

He's a great kisser. His lips are like these weapons he uses for opening me up. But I've got skills in that department as well, I've found. I can't make him open up, because he never really opens up, but I can make him come to me. I just wonder if that's enough. I suppose it must be, seeing as I'm here again.

We break away, and I'm breathing hard. I look for the expression in his eyes. It's intense, but a smile twitches around the edges of his mouth. His breath comes and goes, and he's trying to control it, but his is pretty fast and shallow too. I know the way his body works pretty well now. And I know he's getting hard because I can feel his groin pressed up against mine.

I don't know who moves first, but we're kissing again, and we're also moving, towards the stairs. I think we bounce of pretty much every surface on the way up, every wall and banister, he pushes me against everything as we kiss and grab at each other's clothing, his hands are at my buckle, just assertively pulling the belt open, and I'm doing the same back to him, feeling the heat coming off him as my hands run under his T shirt.

We sort of fall into the bedroom and he kicks the door shut behind him, hard, with his foot. I haven't been here since the night we spent, ages ago, months, when I was first really falling for him. I wonder what I feel now, apart from an insane sense of wanting him, burying both my hands in his hair and pulling him into another kiss as he almost laughs, and grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it up and over my head, fast. The next bit is just a blur of clothes, me pushing his shirt down off his shoulders, but I don't know how he does it, he gets my clothes off first, and I'm standing there in only my boxers when he's still in his jeans, for all I've managed to get his belt open, and my hand inside his flies, and my hand wrapped around his hard dick, and I feel him grunt and stiffen. For a second, he closes his eyes, then opens them again, hooded, puts his hand around my wrist, takes my hand away, and pushes me down on to the bed, climbing on top of me.

So this is how it is, yeah? Fast and furious, and him in control.

But he sort of surprises me. I thought he'd want this quick, because we've not been together for weeks, but suddenly, lying on top of me bare-chested and half out of his jeans, one of my hands pushed down the back of them, trying to grab his backside, greedy, suddenly, he slows it down. Lifts his head a bit, and seems to look at my face. Into my eyes. Nuzzles his lips very gently against mine, his moustache tickling my top lip. And then kisses down the side of my neck. And across my collar bone. And down the very centre of my chest. And across my abdomen, past my belly button. And then sits back, takes hold of the elastic of my boxers, and pulls them down, very slowly. My dick springs up, and I'm almost embarrassed, to be so much at his mercy. I lift my legs to let him pull away my boxers, and he comes to lie back between them, but he's still down there. His hands are on my hip bones. He makes some kind of noise, in the back of his throat. And then he kisses my dick on the tip, opens his mouth, and puts it around me, working his mouth down from the sensitive tip, grabbing the base by the hand and starting to work it, almost lazy, as if there's no hurry. As if there's all the time in the world.

And I close my eyes and feel my head go back into the pillow. It's like being held captive but set completely free at the same time. I just give myself up to him completely, because there is no holding back when he does this. My head turns and drops down to one of my own shoulders, my whole chest is exposed, and my hand rests on the back of his head, as he sucks and works me into helplessness. For a moment, he breaks off, and I look down and see him suck his fingers, and then he takes me back in his mouth and I feel one of his wet fingers feeling a way to my entrance. And then pushing a way in. I push up my hips, unconsciously, a sort of cry coming out of my mouth. Fucking hell, there is nothing like the excitement of this. He's pushing in two fingers now, pulling them out and pushing in again, and he's still sucking and working with his tongue, one of his thumbs works my balls, rolling them over, I feel like the veins in my dick are throbbing, and I really want to come. I want to come right now. But he pulls his fingers out and lets me drop from his mouth, making that little grunting noise again, and I feel my body relax, but still tense and unsatisfied, almost shivering. He pulls himself off me and stands, pushes off the rest of his clothes. And then he looks down at me, and climbs back on top. He lets his full weight down on top of me, I can feel his cock pressed against mine, like they sort of belong together, everything tingles and shivers even under his heat, the hair on his chest, the muscles of his arms. And then strangely, he stops. He just lies there, covering me with his whole body, strong and lean, and he turns his face into my shoulder with a low, croony noise. I look at the ceiling, and then turn my face into his hair. I wait, for a moment, feeling our chests pressed against each other, our legs tangled up. I'm not sure what to do, what he wants me to do. Maybe he's gonna fall asleep on top of me, but he's so hard I don't think that's likely. He's unpredictable, but not when he's got a hard-on like that.

"Brendan …" I say, quietly, but he barely moves. Just nuzzles his mouth against me. Shifts his groin a little, pressing against me.

I lift one of my hands, and it finds its way to the back of his head. And I don't know why I do it, but I stroke his hair. And it feels … strange. I feel strange. Because he has been driving me mental. But I have this rush of feeling for him, and I'm pretty sure I know what it is.

He lifts his head, when he feels my hand on it, and I stop, a bit nervous. He looks down into my face. Looks almost curious.

"What do you want, Stephen?"

I look back at him.

_I want you to love me_, I think. But I don't say it.

"You," I say, in the end.

He looks at me, and almost laughs, soft.

"Good job we're here there, isn't it?" he says, and he bends his head for another kiss, takes hold of my thighs, parts them, and wraps them around his waist.

It's slow. He seems to want to explore me, every inch, as if he's sort of getting acquainted with me again. He puts out his tongue, to taste me, my skin, just the tip of it at first, and then long dragging swirling licks across my belly, from my belly button down to my cock, and then around my cock, and back on up across my belly and chest to my neck. My hands run over the muscles of his shoulders as he does, feeling how totally masculine they are. I didn't know this is what it might mean, to be gay. I thought it meant being kind of feminine. Not being turned on my how much of a man someone is, and feeling more of a man at the same time. And his hands touch me, too, his thumbs rubbing my nipples until they're hard, and pulling my arms around his neck, and then running down my sides to my hips, and then down the back of my thighs, taking a grip and lifting and parting them, wide. He teases me, making my heart hammer, pushing the tip of his cock against my entry as he leans over to get condoms and lube from the bedside cabinet, and then it's all business, but slow, rolling on the condom, and slicking himself up, and me, cold and slippery. And then there's a feeling of pressure. An opening up. A cool burn. Being pushed apart. And him coming in. His cock, coming inside me. I let it happen. I want it to happen. It is fucking amazing, him pushing his way inside me like this. It feels like it just can't happen, but it does happen, and it's like every closed door in my head flies open, every nerve ending explodes, and I can hardly breathe, but at the same time, when I suck in air, I can practically taste oxygen reaching every part of my bloodstream.

I look up at him, my lips open, my legs wrapped high around his back, and his cock right inside me, feeling us pulse and twitch together, our muscles responding to each other. His face is sort of relaxed, but tensed at the same time, his own mouth fallen open.

_I love you_, I think.

And suddenly, I know why I keep coming back. I love him. I have for ages. Almost from the start.

That's what's in my head, anyway. I love you, and I want you to fuck me, and I want you to go on fucking me forever, because it actually makes me happy. I want to be close to you, closer than anyone else, and let you get close to me. It almost shocks me, hearing those words in my head, loud and clear.

But I don't say any of that. If I said that, he'd run a mile, right now, with a hard on. I'd be out of here faster than you can say dumped. Instead, I just hear myself say his name.

"Brendan …"

And he starts to move. But I don't know what's with him tonight. He's in no hurry. He savours all of it, rocking his hips into me, to get deep, deeper, deep as he can, and I feel myself clutch at him as he starts to drag and thrust, him kind of exhaling each time he pushes in, a kind of grunt or a moan, and I know he's getting really into this, it ripples through his whole body how much he wants me. I experience all that in some distant place in my brain, because mainly, I'm not thinking anything, I'm just feeling, and wanting, and concentrating on where I know we're going, this amazing high that you can never put into words, only feel, and hoping we get there together.

But I don't know. It just feels … different. It is cos it's slow, unhurried? Or cos he's not bossing me around telling me what to do? Or cos he's not laughing, making smart remarks, teasing me? Is it cos he just seems totally in the moment, like there's no other agenda, except enjoying me, and making sure I enjoy it as well? Is it cos he keeps kissing me while he fucks me, but soft, not hard, his tongue just looking for mine, or not kissing but his mouth very close to mine, so we pant, together, and I feel like I'm practically smiling, and I think for a second he is as well? Is it cos it doesn't just feel like fucking, good as that is? It feels like … it feels like being adored. I must be going fucking mad. The feel of him, inside me, on top of me, is driving me mad. I am losing my grip. Because the way this feels, is like he can't get enough of me, like I'm driving him a bit mad too, but that's what he wants. As his body pushes and pulls, filling my head full of this white light, and his hands grip me, firm but not rough like sometimes, and I hear him grunt and moan as he loses himself inside me, and our sweat mixes, it feels like … it feels like … it feels like …

His hands go to my thighs, lifting my legs higher, and he picks up the pace. Just when I thought he couldn't get any further inside, he does, and it feels like my world is starting to disintegrate at the edges. And I feel his hand wrap around my cock. So now I know we're getting there. He must be close. His rhythm becomes hard, and jerky, as he fucks and strokes me, hard, and I hear these cries start to come out of my mouth, that only he's ever heard. My mouth is open. I'm not sure I'm in any control at all of what's coming out.

… _oh god … I … I … I lo … _

But he covers my mouth, again, with his, and it just dissolves into cries, and moans, as this impossible heat seems to fill my pelvis and shoot up my spine to my brain. It's so hot, it's white hot, it's like this blistering light, but I want to feel him, all the time, and I feel my hand go to his around my cock, and wrap around it, and urge him to finish it, because I think if we don't finish this now, I will explode. And that's when I start to let go, when my hand is over his, and he's stroking me so hard there's no breath left in my body, and his cock is plunging into my body, over and over, and my toes curl and something comes up from the very heart of me, I'm practically crying out for mercy, and suddenly everything seems to roll up together in one moment, him and me just completely together, and all the muscles in my pelvis contract, hard, and my head goes back, and I feel my dick spurt hot over his hand and my belly, a long, liquid, sense of release, my muscles shaking, and somewhere at the heart of it, right inside me, he comes. I am wrapped, tight, around him, and I feel him pulse, and release, and I have no idea where I am, or how long we've been there, or who I was before all this started, because it seems to go on forever, from the day I was born to the day the world's gonna end, and every day in between.

My mouth is wide open. At some point, I think I start breathing again, sucking in air, my throat, dry. My legs stay around his waist. And my arms around his neck. And he just lies there, on top of me, breathing. And for a moment, his hand strokes my upper arm.

Eventually, he does what he always does. He pulls out of me, carefully, and I drop my legs as he kneels up to get rid of the condom, and clean up. And then he comes to lie next to me, on his side, his head propped on his arm. He looks at me. Puts out a hand, and I feel his thumb trace the line of my cheek again. I love the way he touches me. I can't even think about the fact that he's hurt me with those hands, before. I just don't think about that any more. I wonder if he does.

"OK?" he says.

And I just nod. I love this. I love this bit, afterwards, as long as he doesn't fuck off, or chuck me out. He does this, sometimes, asks me if I'm OK. As if I wouldn't be. As if he doesn't know how much I wanted it. But I guess he really just doesn't want to hurt me now. And this time, I don't even get any smart remarks. He doesn't reach for the gum he always chews. He just looks at me, thoughtfully, out of these hooded grey blue eyes, that make me think of cloudy days. They can be cold. But they're not cold now.

Then he reaches across, and takes one of my hands, that's resting on my chest. And he lifts it up to his mouth, and plants a kiss on the palm. I watch him in total amazement. Feel the prickle of the moustache as he does it. He's never done that before. He holds it for a second, pressing his mouth there. And then he puts it down again. And I wonder if I've been dreaming. He half smiles, looks, but says nothing.

He seems quiet tonight, but sort of happy. Not pretend happy, like when he raises his eyebrows and grins and teases me. But more … calm. I dunno. I don't know what's in his head, because he sure as hell doesn't tell me, but … accepting? Am I imagining it?

I think I must be. I'm kidding myself again. I'm confused at all these signals he sends out, that I just can't read. Because it doesn't look like he feels like talking tonight. He's not gonna tell me what happened at all. And I hate it when he chucks me out, shuts down on me, so I start to stir before it happens.

"I should go …" I say, starting to sit up.

"OK," he says, watching me get up, naked, to find my clothes. Looking at me appreciatively. I feel a sense of disappointment, that he doesn't ask me to stay, try to keep me there. It almost sounds like he knows I need to go, and he's too proud to ask me to stay, but maybe … he might like me to. But life's closing in again. I've got places I probably ought to be. He's got a sister who'll be home soon.

I pull some of my clothes on and straighten my ruffled hair in the mirror. While I do, I catch glimpses of him, reflected, in the mirror, sitting up and pulling a T shirt over his head, reaching for that gum he always chews. I never realised before, but this mirror is right in front of the bed. I wonder if he can see into it when he's sat there. If it's there for a reason. If the night I came here and he got me to straddle his lap, he was watching us the whole time over my shoulder, my body riding his. Or the time later when he had me on my back at the other end of the bed, my head hanging half way off and my legs practically around his neck as he buried himself in me. I've never had anyone want me like that. Not so much that they wanted to watch themselves wanting me. It makes heat prickle all over my body.

My phone buzzes, and I check it. It's Rae. I put it on divert, and feel a stab of guilt. And then I feel a cushion hit my back. Fuck, he's kind of playful tonight. He's practically … tender.

"Who was that?" he asks me.

Why? I think. Jealous? But I don't say that. I don't want to play games with him tonight. My heart doesn't feel like this is a game right now.

"Nobody," I say. "Anyway, why are you in such a good mood?"

You, I want him to say. He doesn't, obviously, he'd never give me that. But he does talk.

"Get a load of this," he says. And then he tells me that Kyle told him that Theresa McQueen killed Calvin Valentine.

I let this sink in. It totally shocks me. Theresa. I went out with Theresa for a bit. She's OK, sweet, if a bit full-on. But murder? This is to do with murder, this thing with Kyle. I've never had anything to do with anything like that. And here he is telling me about it. He never does this, confides in me.

"C'mere," he says.

And it's so good, to be called, I just jump on the bed to lie beside him. He doesn't laugh, or flinch. He just sits there and keeps talking, quietly. He tells me that it wasn't Theresa. It was Warren, and she's covering up. Warren. Why does he shove his way into everything these days?

"So, what are you gonna do?" I ask him. And he just shakes his head, shrugs.

"Prove it, I guess." He says he can use it to get Warren out of his face for good. He sounds almost bitter. Like he hates him.

"What are you so bothered about him for?" I ask him. I don't get it. Why go into business with someone you hate?

And he pauses. He gazes into the middle distance, but it's like he's seeing something else. There is a kind of tension in the room, that wasn't there before.

"I did something," he says.

The words seem to echo around the room, though they're quiet. Maybe just in my head. He's done something.

"What?" I ask him, confused. He stays silent. And somewhere, I start to worry. Something gnaws at me. I feel like we're in new territory here, and I don't know what's brought us here. "What did you do, Brendan?"

He pauses, again. Glances at me, for a second, then away again, like he can't totally meet my eye. Looks down at his hands.

"Something … stupid." His voice is soft, but there's a sound of regret in it, somewhere. He's done something, and he wishes he hadn't. And I just can't get my head around it. What is he trying to tell me? He never does anything stupid. He thinks about everything, plans it. And he has never opened up to me like this before. I've almost never seen inside his head, where the shadows are. I've never seen him like this. This vulnerable. And I feel like I have to keep going. Like I want to. Even if I don't like what I hear.

"And … Warren knows about it?" I ask him. My stomach tightens. I hate the thought of Warren having anything over him. Brendan is … he's the top man. It's just what he is. I need him to be that.

"Yeah," he says, softly, and he turns his head towards me. "Yeah, he does."

My heart sinks like a stone. I feel like something I'm usually sure of, that I depend on, is sliding away, the floor disappearing under my feet. I think it must be written on my face, what this makes me feel, because he glances at me again. And he stops.

"It's nothing for you to worry about," he says. "I promise." And he smiles at me. His face is very close. And I realise how badly I want to believe him. His face is intimate. Even playful.

"Gissa kiss," he says.

I look at him in amazement, unsure. He wants me to kiss him? Wants it? And it's nothing to do with sex? I hesitate.

"Giss kiss," again, softer this time, coaxing, teasing me for holding back. And I feel my face break into a smile, and I laugh, and I lean over and kiss him on the mouth, just short, and he smiles.

He nods to himself, satisfied, looking back at his hands. "Good," he says.

As if somehow that, me kissing him, makes up for the rest of whatever mess it is he's having to deal with.

And for the first time ever, I feel like maybe … the terms have changed. And it's not in my head, I'm not imagining it because I want it. Maybe I have finally made something better for him. By being here, by listening, by kissing him, I've made his life more bearable in some way. That I'm not just that bit of gum on the bottom of his shoe that he has to prise off before he wrecks every floor he walks on. That … I have made a difference, given him something he needed - reassurance, I dunno, comfort, letting him know I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere. That's what I wanted, right? For us to share things, support each other? And I look at the side of his face, close, and wonder if maybe sometimes … he gets tired of taking care of business. Of looking out for everyone. If he needs someone to take care of him, instead, look out for him. And if that someone might – _might_ – be me. And that makes me happy. I feel this glow, in my belly, and I know I'm smiling.

I'm gonna have to go, I know that, but I don't want to leave. Because tonight feels different. Special, in some way that I can't really explain. I drop my lips down onto his shoulder, and I kiss it, through his T shirt, leaving my mouth there, warm, and then resting my chin on it, and he doesn't pull away, he just lets me.

I know I need to finish with Rae. Not tonight. But if he's like this tomorrow, if he can stay like this now, if the doors stay open and he talks to me and smiles, then I'll finish with her. Because I know who I want to be with, even if it has to be secret for a while longer. And even if he hasn't said the words. Maybe he'll say them, one day, what I think he just told me every other way he knew how. And one day soon, I'll say them too, because I know what I felt tonight, and I want him to know.

And maybe one day, he'll be ready to let me help him some more, cos he takes the whole world on his shoulders sometimes, taking care of everyone, including me. Maybe one day he'll let himself rest his head on my chest, and I can stroke his hair again, and make it better for him. Maybe one day I won't be part of the problem anymore, I'll be the solution. And maybe one day, afterwards, we'll be able to walk out into the flat, into the kitchen, and do normal stuff, make tea and toast together and joke around.

I was asking too much, with the date and everything. Pushing too hard, too fast, because I wanted it so much. I know he's not ready to be out with me, and maybe I'm not ready for that either, though when he is, I'll be there.

But if he can give me this, if he can talk to me like someone who might love me, then give me a pen right now and show me the dotted line.

Because I'm signing up.


End file.
